


what happens at night

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Drunk Sex, Feelings are gay, Gabriel is a dick, M/M, One Night Stand, Oral Sex, Sex Dreams, Wincest - Freeform, Winchesters don't talk about their feelings, Winchesters drink and have sex, crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 06:14:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5118266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winchesters don't talk about their feelings -- that's gay. No, instead they have sex dreams about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what happens at night

Dean wakes to the bitter musk of sex, sheets knotted about his legs, sweat congealing on his skin. His mouth tastes sour. His head aches, dull and huge.

There is someone next to him.

His back is pressed against hers; her skin is fever-warm.

A smile crooks the corner of Dean’s mouth. It’s not the first time that he’s woken up after a night of really good sex with a chick he doesn’t remember.

Well.

Uh.

There’s at least one thing wrong with that equation.

The back is kinda...muscly?

Oh God.

Dean stretches his feet out, and back. His toes press against hairy calves.

Oh _Jesus_.

His stomach knots.

And he becomes slowly, desperately aware of a deep throbbing ache in his --

In his --

Oh fuck.

It’s not a bad ache. He feels satisfied. He feels good.

The warm, boneless feeling lulls him slow and syrupy back into the oblivion of sleep.

But then that tiny metal monkey of heterosexual panic starts to sing, and Dean snaps back awake.

He has to look. He’s got to look and see what he’s dealing with. Visions of a huge leather-clad biker swim through his head.

He rolls over.

Smooth golden planes of muscle, a tanned back, strong broad shoulders, dark sweaty hair. Hm. Not bad. Dean’s cock gives a little, unhelpful stir.

He’s got to sneak out.

He rolls back over. He’s in his motel room. Fuck. Not as easy as getting his shit and legging it then. He’s churning the dilemma over in his brain -- trying to line up the best words to use to toss his bedmate out -- when the dude rolls over, making a sleepy contented noise. Dean closes his eyes out of reflex.

The guy shifts closer and kisses him.

He’s got a mouth like a miracle.

Dean’s kissed people. Boys and girls and monsters and angels and demons and damn if this kiss doesn’t make him see stars. It’s absurd. The dude tastes of morning-breath, and the chapped press of his lips is probably the single sexiest thing Dean’s felt in a long long while.

Mystery Dude opens his mouth, sliding his tongue over Dean’s lower lip before deepening the kiss.

Dean slings his arms up around the guy, tugs him closer. Rolls onto his back. His one night stand follows eagerly, sliding his morning wood up against Dean’s stomach and purring in contentment. The vibrato shudders all the way to Dean’s juddering heart. He’s so horny he can’t really think straight. Which, to be fair, is often true of Dean.

“Hm, I should do this more often,” Dean says, as they part for air. There’s a sliver of space between his mouth and the other man’s. Dude smells good.

“Oh Jesus,” says the guy. The hot, comforting weight of him vanishes.

And Dean opens his eyes.

\--

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Dean can’t stop swearing. Or vomiting. Or brushing his teeth and showering under water so hot it threatens to melt his skin off.

He can’t remember anything.

\--

“We made out,” Sam’s saying. He’s got his head in his hands. “We made out, Jesus, I thought we couldn’t get any weirder and we fucking --”

“-- we didn’t fuck, we didn’t,” Dean says. He’s pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Wearing the motel carpet thin. “We can’t have done.”

But the cold hard fact is this: Dean’s got hickeys up and down his neck, and an ass that has clearly been reamed into the middle of next week. He limps a bit. Someone has given him the ride of his life.

He hopes to ever god there is that the person wasn’t his baby brother.

“We were drunk,” Sam says. “And we passed out next to each other, and when we woke up we got kind of confused and --”

“Made out. But --”

“I need to puke again,” Dean decrees.

He does so.

\--

There’s a case.

Maine. a sky huge and metallic and dripping with rain. Umpteen Stephen King jokes.

It has been a day since he woke up next to Sammy, sore and sated and reeking of sex. His ass still hurts. The meat of his thighs aches: a jellified fucking quiver that probably came from

( _having his ankles hoisted up and back, bent almost in half_ \--)

something.

\--

“Witches. I fucking hate witches.”

There’s a coven in this tiny town who have decided that the best use of their time and talent is to terrorise the wife of the local pastor. They kill her dog, her aunt and are about to go for her two year old daughter when Dean and Sam intervene.

It doesn’t take long, all things considered. There are only four witches, and in the space of five seconds three of them lie dead, chests blown wide and red by shotgun blasts. Witches are fragile as any human.

One of them still breathes. Her face is spattered crimson with the blood of her sisters.

“Why d’you do it?” Dean says.

The woman’s weeping. “She was a whore. She didn’t know what she had, she didn’t value --” Dean puts a bullet in her skull. He’s thinking of the pink-cheeked cherub knotted and bound in the centre of an altar.

But her words echo as they drive on and out. She didn’t know what she had.

She didn’t know.

He turns Metallica up, so loud that the windows rattle and Sam pulls his patented bitchface.

\--

Dean fucks a girl in every town from Maine to Ohio.

It gets to the point where Sam starts bitching.

“Dean get some standards,” he says. It’s four in the morning and Dean’s latest conquest dangles from Sam's grasp like some much rotting flesh.

“Jeez Sammy, put the poor girl down.”

“She was shooting up in my bathroom,” Sam snaps.

Dean takes another look at the girl. She’s got a good sweep of golden hair, and big blue eyes but --  ahh shit, yeah, there are red-raw trackmarks on her forearms.

“Take a hike sister,” he says. She spits in his face.

"What’s wrong with you Dean?” Sam says, as the girl wanders off. “Do you want to get herpes? Because this is how you get fucking herpes.”

\--

Dean doesn’t reply. What’s he meant to say?

When I sleep Sam, I have these dreams --

Dreams about Sam.

He’s no stranger to strange sex dreams. He’s had them about Crowley, Cas and his second grade science teacher, who was six foot six and black and the most terrifying woman in the history of women everywhere.

But Sam. Sam. Every night -- unless he’s blackout drunk -- he dreams that Sam is laying him down, stretching him wide and filling him up. The press of his cock inside. Fingers working in deep. And Sam’s mouth, wet and starved and adhered to Dean’s. Tongues all tangled up. The centre of the universe, everything close and singing and perfect.

So yes. Every time Dean sleeps sober he dreams that he’s getting fucked ten ways from Sunday by his brother.

And Sam asks him why he fucks any girl who looks at him more than once.

\--

To be fair, that’s not quite true. One night he dreams about the witch he shot in Maine. Red-painted and shivering with mad animal anger, snarling the words _she didn’t know what she had she didn’t know what she had again and again._

\--

It’s been a month. Dean wakes up in the middle of the night to hear Sam calling his name.

Well.

Uh

Calling is the wrong word.

 _Moaning_.

Sam’s basically humping his mattress, his back muscles flexing, his eyes rolling madly beneath papery lids. “Oh Dean, oh Dean you feel amazing.”

Red flags of colour ride high on Dean’s cheekbones.

The  hot shivery itch of embarrassment along Dean’s nape feels like ten thousand spiderfeet.

“Wake up,” hisses Dean. “Wake up.”

Sam’s only response is a long drawn-out groan as he spunks his pants.

\--

Fuck his life so very much.

\--

“We need to talk about this,” he says to Sam, and the two talk about their feelings and thrash it out like adults. They conclude that they have an atypical relationship that throbs with sexual tension, and that despite the blood-tie they both cannot live without each other and thus should just shun societal norms. It’s not that they are normal in any other way. They steal and lie and cheat and kill and neither of them are especially human anymore. So they decide that attempting some form of relationship might work.

No, that’s not what happens.

Of course it isn’t.

Winchesters don’t talk about their feelings.

That would be gay.

No, they get really drunk.

Dean says, “Oh God, oh Sammy, I love you more than anything in the history of the world,” and then he bends over and lets Sam --

 _Well_.

\--

The next morning Dean wakes to the musky scent of sex. His ass is sore and his throat hurts, mainly because Sam’s a rough bitch in bed and it turns out his second favourite thing -- other than cramming his unreasonably large cock up Dean's ass -- is to shove his unreasonably large cock down to the back of Dean’s throat.

Sam’s half asleep on him. He’s a heavy, comfy weight.

“Well, this ain’t really what I was expecting,” says Gabriel, popping up on the end of the bed. “But still, it’s hilarious.”

“Wha -- “ Dean says, sleepy and contented and exhausted.

“I did a bit of, uh, trickery on you two. Wanted to screw with you. See what happened if you started living a slashfic. I thought it would drive you batty, not drive you into bed. I’ve been beaming the contents of the internet into your heads.”

Sam props himself up. It means that his cock slips out of Dean’s ass, which isn’t ideal.

Oh yeah, they had fallen asleep sort of...joined. Not exactly romantic but hella hot. Well. Dean thinks so.

“So last month --”

“You didn’t actually have a sordid one night stand. I just...fucked with you.”

Dean goes white. He thinks of the sore stretched feeling and --

“I didn’t literally fuck with you! Bit of magic. Anyway, I’ll leave ya to it.”

He vanishes.

Dean swallows thickly. He`can’t believe that this is his life now; he’s been tricked into fucking his brother; _nothing is right and nothing is normal and_ \--

Sam jostles himself back into position and slides his dick back to where it had been.

Ah. Okay. Yeah. Dean curls into a half-moon shape, wriggling his hips in invitation.

He’ll work out the finer details later. Until then, he’ll leave a couple of cakes out for Gabe. Dude has issues, but sometimes he’s right. 


End file.
